"No, thank you, Marshal," she said quietly. "Just do your job well, and I will consider that part of my late husband's legacy to the town."
"Yes, ma'am. I intend to try."
"I'll take you back to the hotel, Simone," Durand said. "Or were you looking for me, Marshal Tyler?"
Cole shook his head. "Nope. Just getting comfortable with the office. Hope you don't mind the sign Billy put up outside."
Durand smiled. "Not at all. I do wish Deputy Casebolt had checked with me on the spelling first, however. But since Wind River doesn't even have a school yet, we can't be too worried about such things just now."
He put his hat on and led Mrs. McKay out of the office, and Cole went behind the desk and sat down. Even with the buffalo-hide cover, the chair wasn't particularly comfortable. He propped his boots on the desk and leaned back anyway.
Wind River didn't have a school or a church, but there were businesses aplenty, he reflected. That told him something about the thinking of Andrew McKay and William Durand as they went about establishing the town. Simone McKay had told him the night before that her husband and his partner had sometimes gotten carried away with their planning and neglected practical considerations while they devoted their attention to money-making enterprises.
They weren't that much different from the other town builders Cole had encountered out here in the West. Most men came just to make their fortunes, but if they brought their wives and families with them, sooner or later they realized that the settlements had to be decent places to live, too, not just somewhere to rake in a profit. That was when the schools and the churches—not to mention the law—showed up. Wind River was just following a pattern that had been played out many times before.
Billy Casebolt came back to the office a little later, and Cole went to the hash house to get his supper. The food wasn't particularly good, but the big Swede who ran the place had his wife cooking and his four daughters waiting tables, so the service was fast.
After he'd eaten, Cole went back to the office and got Casebolt, and the two of them took another turn around town. There was plenty of noise coming from the saloons, but it was the friendly kind tonight. No fights were breaking out, and there hadn't been any shooting since the fracas in Hank Parker's tent saloon earlier in the day. For his first day on the job, Cole was pretty satisfied.
"Durand said a room in the boardinghouse came with this badge, but I haven't moved my gear over there yet," he told Billy when they got back to the office. "I reckon I'll spend one more night at the hotel and move in the morning. You can find me there if you need me."
The middle-aged deputy nodded. "Sure thing, Marshal. Maybe it'll be a quiet night. Maybe all the trouble's played itself out."
"Could be," Cole grunted, but he didn't believe it for a second. The best they could hope for was a respite.
He walked back to the hotel and went upstairs to his room. After finding a visitor there the night before, he was a little more wary tonight, and as he approached the door he glanced down to see if there was any light coming from under it.
Sure enough, there was.
Cole stopped short and stood tensely in the hallway, wondering what the hell was going on. He hadn't really expected to see any light coming from his room, but the glow was unmistakable.
A grim cast stole over his face, and his hand went to the butt of the Colt. He lifted his left foot as he drew the gun, then sent the heel of his boot crashing against the door. It slammed open, smashing back against the wall behind it just in case anybody unfriendly was hiding there. Cole went through the opening in a hurry, the revolver leveled and ready to fire.
Simone McKay gasped and jerked to her feet from the chair where she had been sitting.
"What in blazes!" Cole exclaimed without thinking. "What are you doing here again, Mrs. McKay?"
Her face was a pale, blurred mask behind the veil. "Do you have to point that weapon at me, Marshal Tyler?" she asked, managing to sound a little dignified, which was quite an accomplishment under the circumstances.
Cole looked down stupidly at the gun in his fist, then said, "Oh. Sorry." He leathered the Colt, then went on, "No offense, ma'am, but I didn't expect to find you waiting in my room again tonight." He heard footsteps coming hurriedly up the stairs, drawn by the noise of the door being kicked open. "Maybe for the sake of your reputation, Mrs. McKay, we'd better move our discussion down to the lobby."
"I'm not overly concerned with my reputation, Marshal, but I thank you for your consideration." Her chin lifted defiantly. "I've been a widow for less than thirty-six hours, and besides, I own a great deal of this town now. I don't think the citizens will gossip too much about me. Furthermore, what I have to say to you tonight requires privacy."
Intrigued in spite of himself, Cole nodded. "If that's the way you want it." He swung around to the door as the clerk from downstairs appeared in the opening. Cole didn't even let him get the obvious question out. "There's no trouble here, mister. Everything's under control, so you can go on about your business."
The man looked at Cole, glanced at Simone, then nodded. Cole thought Mrs. McKay might be underestimating the power of gossip, but that was her business. Without saying anything, the clerk headed back down the stairs.
Cole shut the door. The lock was broken from his kick, but it caught enough to stay closed. He turned to face Simone and said, "What can I do for you, Mrs. McKay?"
"It's very simple, Marshal," she said. "You can prove that my husband's death was no accident. He was murdered, and I want you to find his killer."
Chapter 5
For several moments that seemed to stretch out even longer, Cole stared at Simone McKay and wondered if he had heard her right. There was no doubt about it, he finally decided. Frowning darkly, he repeated, "Murdered?"
Simone lifted her veil and draped it back over the shawl she wore on her thick, dark hair. When she looked at Cole again, he saw that although her features were still quite pale, the lines of shock and sorrow that had been there the night before were gone now, replaced by an expression of determination.
"That's correct," she said. "I believe that during that brawl on the station platform, someone took advantage of the confusion to shoot Andrew. It was a deliberate killing, Marshal, not an accident."
"You have any proof of that?" Cole asked, wishing he knew more about what a real lawman would do in a situation like this.
"I'm relying on you to discover the proof. That's part of your job."
Cole rubbed his jaw and shook his head slowly. "That may be, ma'am, but it doesn't tell me how to go about it. Do you at least have any idea who might have done such a thing?"
"As a matter of fact, I do." Again the defiant lift of the chin, the firming of the shoulders. "I think William Durand killed my husband."
Cole knew he was staring again, but he couldn't help it. "Durand?" he said. "But Durand and your husband were partners, and from what I've heard, your husband's holdings didn't go to Durand but to you."
"Not entirely. As a matter of fact, under the terms of the partnership agreement between Andrew and Durand, I received only the hotel and the newspaper. Everything else goes to Durand." She smiled faintly. "William Durand thinks of me as a sweet but helpless woman, Marshal Tyler. I'm sure he regards me as an easy target for his schemes and intends to swindle me out of those assets as well."
Cole wanted to let out a low whistle of admiration, but he suppressed the impulse. If that was really what Durand thought, then the man was in for one hell of a big surprise. Now that her initial grief had passed, Cole could see the iron in Simone McKay.
"You intend to look after your late husband's business interests?" he asked.
"Of course. And I'm going to keep an eye on Durand's activities, too. If it's proven that he killed Andrew, not only would my husband's share of their joint holdings revert to me, but so would Durand's, since he has no living relatives. To tell you the truth, Marshal, I'm not sure that William Durand is even his real name. I belie
ve he may be wanted by the law back east."
"Then if you're right about him—and I can't say as I believe you are, just yet—but if you're right, you could be in danger, too."
Simone inclined her head in acknowledgment of his point. The movement had an innate grace to it, like the swaying of a pine in a mountain wind. "That's one reason I came to you tonight, Marshal, and told you of my suspicions. I want Andrew's death cleared up so that he can rest easily, wherever he is, and not have to worry about me."
Cole shook his head again. "Seems hard to believe. Durand was one of the men pushing so hard for me to take the job as marshal."
"Because he is being pushed in turn by the other leaders of the community to bring some law and order to Wind River. Besides, it would look rather strange, wouldn't it, if he didn't have any reaction to his partner's death? He has to keep up appearances."
Cole thought about it some more and then said, "Reckon there could be something to it, all right. With all the confusion on that station platform, Durand could've slipped out a gun, shot your husband, and put it away before anybody noticed. Nobody searched him after the shooting. It seemed so obvious the shot was just a stray bullet. . . ."
"Which was exactly what he wished everyone to think."
Cole grunted. He didn't want to offend the widow, but he wanted things clear in his head before he let her rope him in on this notion of murder. "Well, for somebody who figures Durand killed her husband, you've been mighty friendly to him."
Simone arched her eyebrows. "Durand isn't the only one who has to keep up appearances. If he thinks I don't suspect him at all, I'll be better able to counter his schemes when he puts them into effect."
"And in the meantime you want me to prove somehow that he killed Mr. McKay."
"Yes. As I said before, Marshal, it's your—"
"My job. Yeah, I know," Cole finished for her. "I signed on to keep the peace, not to get to the bottom of a killing, but I reckon that comes with the territory." He nodded. "All right, Mrs. McKay, I'll look into it. But I can't promise anything. This is all pretty much new to me. In the meantime, keep your own eyes open. I don't want any more accidents."
Simone lowered the veil over her face again. "I assure you, Marshal, neither do I."
* * *
Cole didn't sleep well after Simone left his room in the hotel. He kept staring up at the darkened ceiling as he lay in the bed, thinking about what she had told him and what she had asked him to do. There was obviously going to be more to the job of marshal than he had bargained for. Finally, he dozed off.
And woke up what seemed like mere moments later to gunshots and shouting and the assorted sounds of all hell breaking loose.
Instantly, Cole rolled out of bed, his hand going instinctively to the butt of the holstered revolver he had hung on the bedpost. He hurried to the window and jerked on the shade, making it roll up with a loud rattle. Sunlight struck him in the face and he winced. Sleeping inside, on a real bed, was making him soft, he thought fleetingly. Most days he was up well before the sun, but today the morning was well advanced.
There was still all sorts of commotion going on outside. Cole stuck his head out the window, aware that he was wearing nothing but long underwear bottoms. He looked down Grenville Avenue toward the east and saw a huge cloud of dust hanging in the air outside of town. A loud rumble reached his ears. One of the townies was scurrying past on the street, just below the window of Cole's hotel room, and Cole shouted to him, "Hey! What's going on?"
The man paused long enough to throw a fearful glance up at Cole and wave frantically toward the dust and the ominous rumbling sound. "Cattle!" the man called. "Thousands of cattle! And they're stampeding this way!"
Stampede! Cole thought, his belly going cold with apprehension. He had never seen a herd of cattle running wild like that, but he had witnessed more than one buffalo stampede—and they could be awesome in their destructiveness. The herd of cattle coming toward Wind River couldn't be as big as the buffalo herds Cole had seen, some of which had probably numbered in the millions, but from the looks of the dust cloud, it was plenty big enough to do some damage.
He whirled away from the window and grabbed up his pants, pulling them on quickly and then reaching for his boots. He stomped into them, yanked the soft buckskin shirt over his head. After breaking the lock on the door the night before, he had wedged the room's single chair under the knob. He kicked it aside now and ran out, tucking the Colt in his pants and not taking the time to strap on the shell belt.
The rumbling from thousands of hooves was even louder as he ran out of the hotel lobby a few seconds later. The herd had not reached town yet, but it was drawing closer. Most of the people on the streets were terrified and running for cover, but a few men had managed to mount up and were riding east along Grenville Avenue, toward the stampede. Maybe they hoped to intercept the cattle and turn them before they reached Wind River. It was only a faint hope, Cole knew, but still the best chance for the town to avoid wholesale destruction.
A few of the stronger buildings might survive if the stampede swept through the settlement, but the tents would be trampled into the ground and most of the structures that had not yet been completed would probably collapse.
Cole turned toward the livery stable and broke into a run. He wasn't wearing his badge, but he was still the marshal of Wind River, and it was his job to do what he could to save the town.
He found Billy Casebolt in the barn, leading out the big golden sorrel and a sturdy-looking bay mare. "Figured you'd be wantin' your hoss when you heard what was goin' on," the deputy greeted Cole. "The hostler knew this big feller was yours and got him saddled up."
"That was quick thinking, Billy," Cole said as he grabbed Ulysses's reins from the older man and swung up into the saddle. "Come on. We've got to try to turn that herd."
Casebolt mounted up and rode out of the barn beside Cole. "You ever worked with cattle before?" he asked, raising his voice over the rapidly approaching thunder of hooves.
"A little," replied Cole. "Enough to know we've got our work cut out for us."
He heeled the sorrel into a run and headed down the street, which had pretty well emptied out. Most folks had found themselves a hidey-hole by now, Cole figured, but that wouldn't do them much good if the full force of the stampede hit the town.
As he reached the end of the avenue he saw the dark, roiling mass at the base of the dust cloud. The leading edge of the herd was less than half a mile away now. The cattle were galloping along parallel to the railroad tracks, and their path would take them through the main section of Wind River.
Cole spotted a few riders galloping along between the herd and the steel rails, firing six-guns into the air and shouting stridently as they tried to reach the leaders and urge them back to the south. That was the only way to stop a stampede, Cole knew—turning it in on itself until the cattle had run out their fright.
He leaned forward in the saddle, urging the sorrel on to greater speed. The riders he could see, probably the cowboys who had accompanied the herd on its journey from wherever it had come from, weren't going to be able to reach the leaders in time.
The townsmen who had ridden out here to see if they could help had all veered off, retreating to safety on the north side of the railroad tracks when they had seen the juggernaut bearing down on them. Cole and Casebolt were the only ones who were still in position to have a chance to turn the herd.
And if they miscalculated . . . if their horses made one misstep . . . they would go down and the runaway herd would sweep over them—and likely there wouldn't even be enough left to bury.
With the crazed herd bearing down on them, Cole and Casebolt swung their horses to the south, the deputy following the younger man's lead. Cole jerked his revolver from the waistband of his pants and eared back the hammer. He and Casebolt were riding directly toward the flow of the stampede now, with less than a hundred yards separating them from the leaders of the herd. Cole started firing, and as he di
d so he yelled at the top of his lungs. Casebolt followed suit, trailing a few yards behind him.
For an awful moment he thought the noise and the distraction wasn't doing any good. The stampede didn't seem to be slowing or turning. But then a few of the leaders began to veer to the south in an attempt to avoid the two crazy men galloping in front of them. More of the cattle followed, and as the seconds dragged out it became more and more obvious that the herd was gradually swinging to the south.
Now the question was whether or not it would turn in time, Cole thought as he triggered off the last of his shots and then concentrated on getting all the speed possible out of the sorrel. He and Casebolt had to get clear, or they might still be trampled by the runaway cattle.
Cole waved Casebolt away and angled away from the herd himself. As the cattle continued to turn, the two lawmen eventually wound up galloping alongside the still-frantic animals. The cowboys who had accompanied the herd drew up even with them, still shouting and shooting to make sure the cattle didn't turn back toward Wind River.
Cole and Casebolt drew farther and farther away from the herd until they were finally well clear of it and could rein their exhausted mounts to a halt.
Blood was pounding inside Cole's skull, and he couldn't seem to get quite enough air into his lungs for a few minutes. When he looked over at Casebolt, he saw that the older man's face was gray and drawn, and Casebolt's gnarled fingers were clutched tightly around his saddlehorn. Casebolt was having trouble catching his breath, too.
"You all right, Billy?" Cole managed to ask.
Casebolt nodded jerkily. "That was close, Marshal, mighty close," he said.
"Too damned close," Cole bit off. He looked around. The herd of cattle was still streaming by, and the first tents on the outskirts of Wind River were less than fifty yards behind Cole and Casebolt. If they had taken another thirty seconds to turn the herd, it would have been too late to save some of the town.
Wind River Page 6
